David and I got up this morning, a week into our two week vacation, sat on the deck drinking cappuccino, moved to the porch to get out of the sun, too hot even though it was a cool morning, and talked about what we would each do today. David was planning to continue sorting through paperwork in his studio, then work on the barn, either doing more organizing of the detritus of our blended lives, or painting in the summer studio he’s creating in the cleared out space. I was going to bike and swim (tri prep), water the garden, and write. We both would grocery shop, then cook for the dinner party with old friends.
“Let’s forget all that and go to the coast and kayak,” David said.
“We can get fish for dinner at Seaport,” I said, the fish market Eric and I shopped at for dinner parties. “They have incredibly delicious smoked salmon that they smoke themselves.”
An hour later we were on the road, two hours later we were in Little Harbor, paddling towards the mouth against the tide. I was riding on a sea of green — the green of the water above the sand and rocks, just feet below as the water swirled in to fill the harbor and creeks and marshes. The line of marsh grass and low, scrubby trees lining the edges of the water was reflecting a deeper green onto the sea green. The sky was as much cloud as blue and I thought about my blue kitchen, how I want it to be green. I thought about how I wasn’t thinking about anything. The boat was alive under me, twitching with the water pulling in with the tide, rumpled by wind, and my own strokes of direction.
Now it’s bedtime, the dinner party over, the smoked salmon raved about and devoured, the dishes done. The green is in me and I feel full.